Seasons to Feel Glad, Sad, Mad
by pratz
Summary: Years of words unsaid equal years of deeds undone. Seven entries for Faberry Week in one arc.


**Seasons to Feel Glad, Sad, Mad**

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: RIB's for _Glee_. Travis for all the lyrics.

Summary:

Note: these are my entries for Faberry Week Dec 16-22. A follow-up on _Routine_ and _Normal_. And yes, photographer!Quinn is my fetish.

-.-.-.-

**one: flowers in the window**

_There is no reason to feel bad._  
_But there are many seasons to feel glad, sad, mad._

-.-

There are things that Quinn knows about Rachel. That Rachel loves a good foot massage on weekends. That Rachel prefers latte to cappuccino. That Rachel spends fifteen minutes to tend to her dental hygiene.

This, however, she does not know.

Rachel looks sheepish.

Quinn raises an eyebrow.

If anything, Rachel looks more sheepish. "Forget it. It was just a stupid dream anyway."

Quinn contemplates the idea for a moment, then, "Not really."

Leaning against the windowsill, Rachel looks surprised. Manhattan illuminates her figure from behind, snow warring with dim fluorescence. This is the part of snow watching that Quinn likes. Outside, the world whitens and greys, but Rachel is colors and bright lights and gravity. Quinn knows since years ago that she is spending the rest of her life to give her foot massage, make Rachel's latte, and watch the snow together.

And now to give her a garden of flowers. In December. In Manhattan's unforgiving winter.

Rachel holds her breath as Quinn's right hand brushes against her left shoulder, fingertips on the fogged window behind her. "What are you doing?"

"Just give me a minute."

"Mm-hm." She winds an arm around Quinn's waist, enveloping her in a half-hug. "Can I count?"

Quinn laughs. "Hold still." Then as she promises, a minute later she steps back from Rachel, putting an arm distance between them. "There you go."

Rachel looks over her shoulder to find Quinn's impromptu drawing on the fogged window, and she can't help the soft, giddy laugh and Quinn knows she is spending the rest of her life to make Rachel laugh like that.

Quinn snatches her camera from the coffee desk. "A picture, Ms Berry?"

Being the ever camera-friendly person she is, Rachel straightens right away. "On one condition. You have to give the picture a title."

Quinn raises her camera, adjusting the focus and aperture. "Any idea?"

"Hey, that's part of my request." Rachel lowers her eyelids, eyelashes almost sweeping against elegant cheekbones. Drops her left shoulder a little and lifts the other one. Arches her back. Exposes her lean neck. And smiles.

Behind the camera, Quinn's breath stills for a painful millisecond.

Thankfully, her shutter doesn't.

A few pictures later, she puts down her camera and goes back to Rachel. The flowers that she has drawn on the window behind Rachel have blurred, lines of dripping moisture make it no longer distinguishable against silhouette of Manhattan's skyscrapers. She stops in front of Rachel. Rachel tilts her head, still smiling, still waiting.

"Flower fairy," she murmurs. "That's the title."

Laughing softly, Rachel reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind Quinn's ear. "Cheesy."

"You're welcome."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**two: my eyes**

_But either way, I will pray you will be wise._  
_Pretty soon you will see the tears in my eyes._

-.-

She wants.

She wants a stage with a thunderous applause. She wants multi platinum albums and awards. She wants sold out concerts and intercontinental tours. She wants her fathers to always be healthy and her own small family to always be happy.

Yet at this moment, there's nothing else she wants but to be Quinn.

Soon-to-be eight-month old Lucy is sprawled on Quinn's torso, soundly asleep. She even drools on Quinn's well-worn NYADA sweater. Her most precious human being, Rachel muses. Said human pillow is also sleeping, though Rachel knows it takes only the littlest amount of disruption to wake Quinn up. The years of being a wildlife photographer have rubbed off on Quinn's sleeping habit, and the years of knowing Quinn have rubbed off on Rachel's observation of people.

_Not of people_, she corrects herself mentally. _Just of Quinn_.

She touches Quinn gently on her raised, bent knee.

Quinn stirs awake, rubbing her eyes. "Hi."

Rachel nudges her a little and sits next to Quinn's hip on the couch. "I want your boobs."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "How I miss your moment of insanity."

She shakes her head, hiding mirth. "I mean, Lucy never sleeps on me like this."

Quinn stifles a yawn with a hand that's not busy rubbing Lucy's back. "Yeah, but I'm the only one she drools on and pees on."

She shrugs. "That's how she says she loves you."

Quinn sits up slowly, careful not to wake Lucy, resting her back on the armrest. "How's the meeting?"

Rachel doesn't want to talk about this, really. "It's good. He says they're more than ready to face Sectionals."

Quinn purses her lips, quiet for a while, then, "Good. If McKinley loses, I'll get San to go all Lima Heights on him."

Rachel is almost laughing, but Lucy makes a soft gurgling sound. Both of them immediately shut up, waiting in anticipation for a loud cry. Lucy's tiny fists flail around before one of them lands on Quinn's shoulder. Quinn winces quietly as Lucy's fingers tangle themselves in her hair.

This time, Rachel really does laugh, reaching out to entangle Lucy's fist from Quinn's hair, smoothing the lock of shoulder-length hair back.

"She does love me, doesn't she?" Quinn says wryly, but the way her hand keeps rubbing on Lucy's back, the way she nudges her nose against Lucy's temple, and the way her eyes sparkle bely the impassionate tone.

"Yes, she does," she says. _Yes, I do_, she wants to say.

But she doesn't.

She wants everything too much.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**three: ****turn**

_I want to live in a world where I'll be strong_  
_I want to live_  
_I will survive._

-.-

"Hi Quinn. I'm wondering if I can pick you up after you're done with work. Shelby just called and said she's expecting us. Have a great day and don't be too hard on the newbies. Nobody can hold a candle to the illustrious Quinn Fabray, after all!"

Press 9.

"Quinn, are you still in the workshop? Santana has just dropped a huge gift in my apartment. Lord knows if she's putting anything ridiculous inside, I'll file a lawsuit for deliberately disturbing an innocent ten-year old. Oh, and Lucy says hi. She misses Auntie Win terribly. See you later!"

Press 9.

"Do let me know when your workshop is over, Quinn. National Geographic or not, I'll break into your workshop if I have to."

Press 9.

"Quinn Fabray, you are not going to do this to me. You bought _Lucy_ a birthday cake the size of Manhattan Island for her birthday, for Barbra's sake! You are not running away from this day, and we are going to go there."

Press 9.

"Quinn, just give me a call. Please."

Press 9.

Frustrated, Rachel throws Quinn's phone onto the couch none too gently. The owner of the poor phone just gives her a glance over her shoulder, not even bothering to stop tickling Lucy's belly. Rachel glares, trying to give her all to be mad at Quinn, but Lucy's happy squeals keeps distracting her.

Sighing, she pinches the bridge of her nose. A headache is coming.

But a headache is so much better than a heartache, she knows.

She approaches her two most important people tentatively. Quinn is sitting on the floor, feet stretched ahead of her, leaning against the couch. Lucy's laughter is the only sound in the living room, and Rachel feels somewhat guilty for letting her daughter get tangled in the middle of this.

But what is _this_ actually, she wonders.

"I've sent a gift two days ago," Quinn says, quiet, as if for a penitence.

"She would want you to be there," Rachel says as gently as possible.

Lucy slaps five tiny fingers onto Quinn's chin, pushing her head to loll aside to Rachel's knee. The skin of her temple meets Rachel's, and Quinn stays in that position for a long, uncomfortable moment.

"I don't want to." Then Quinn adds, as if she is taking the final vertical cut in an act of Japanese disembowelment. "I can't."

Her breath falls onto Rachel's knee, and her lips are so, so close to touching.

"You've got all of my messages."

"Yeah."

"And you ignore all of them." She doesn't even realize her fingers have been running through Quinn's hair. "Now I'm not sure I can believe that you're the biggest fan of my voice."

"Yeah."

Lucy crawls onto Quinn's neck and shoulder, and a corner of Quinn's lips lifts.

Rachel sighs again. "Lucy is not a substitute."

"Never," Quinn hisses, and for a brief moment, Rachel can detect the fierce fire that has been long extinguished since Quinn gave up _her own daughter_ years ago.

"Win." Lucy reaches for Quinn's neck. "Win." Then, as Quinn shifts to adjust to her new position better, she turns at Rachel and reaches for her fingers in Quinn's hair. "Mama."

A strangled sob forces itself to be known from Rachel's throat as she slides down onto the floor.

Nobody will call Quinn mama. Nobody will. Nobody.

She butts her head against Quinn's shoulder. "You're an idiot."

"Yeah."

"Stay."

"Yeah."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**four: re-offender**

_Everybody thinks you're well_  
_Everybody thinks I'm ill_  
_Watching me fall apart_  
_Falling under your spell._

-.-

She wonders if people need a home like they need clothing and skin.

She's lying on her bed. Staring at the yellowing pages of her old _Alice in Wonderland_ but not exactly reading it. Catching the quietly muted buzz of Manhattan from outside. Listening to the rustle of Rachel's moving things out from her closet. Really, she is just moving into a new apartment, but Rachel has taken it to herself that she is supervising the packing.

"Quinn, you still have this?"

She turns her head to look at Rachel and the piece of garment hanging from her hand, and her head is flooded by memories of red and white. Rachel flashes the now infamous uniform in front of her face, the flapping skirt hitting her glasses. She brushes the uniform aside.

Rachel raises both eyebrows at her dismissive gesture. "So this goes to the donation box?"

She shrugs. "I don't really care."

"If you say so." Rachel taps a finger to her chin. "I'll be right back."

While she is fond of her old place, this one is closer to the heart of NYC, to the rush of people in the city who never sleeps, to the fever of tired modern life. She needs a break after spending two years chasing after birds of paradise in Papuan forests, and people in their daily activities are interesting objects.

"Ta-da!"

Take Rachel, for example.

Because despite all the years she has known her, Rachel has always had the ability to surprise her.

"I'm quite proud I can still fit into a dress from our prehistoric era," she says, approaching Quinn and sitting next to her. "You know, before we write our history together. But my God, how could you breathe in a uniform this tight?"

Quinn puts down her _Alice_, looking at Rachel. "It looks good on you."

Rachel's smile is melancholic as she asks, "How did it feel when you wore this?"

Behind the glasses, Quinn's eyes close. She remembers days of running laps, of human pyramids, of proud parents, of slushy showers, of her stuff in a suitcase, of a stupid show choir, and of the one and only person who manages to get to know her sans the uniform.

Said person is waiting for her answer, apparently.

"I thrilled," she eventually ends up replying. "It got me what I wanted."

"But you decided to let go of it for the glee club."

"For a good reason." She opens her eyes. "It felt like shedding my skin. No more pretending. No more being the poster child of perfection. I could breathe easier."

Rachel's smile softens. "Do you now?"

_No_, she wants to answer. _Because you're so close_. "I guess I'm still shedding my skin even now."

Gently, Rachel brushes back her bangs that have fallen across her glasses. "Then what kind of skin are you shedding now?"

"Myself."

There's a flash of emotion that Quinn catches on Rachel's face, but before she can register it, Rachel takes off her glasses. Then everything blurs. Then everything is like a skin that she can shed. She feels gentle hands cupping her face, thumbs rubbing her cheekbones.

"I didn't know you need a reading glass," Rachel murmurs.

"You know I'm myopic." Rachel is so close. Too close. Quinn can feel the air on her cheek whenever Rachel exhales. She feels the bed dip as Rachel pulls away, and she doesn't know if she should feel disappointed of elated.

And she hears a barely audible whisper: "And your myopia is so bad that you can't see me."

"Rachel," she starts.

"I'll put this in the donation box," Rachel says hastily, taking with her the air that Quinn needs, the skin that Quinn has been trying to discard, and the hope that Quinn has long given up. "Thanks for letting me borrow it, though."

She puts on her glasses back with a sigh, and the world regains its lucidity.

And its skin, too.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**five: before you were young**

_In the days before you were young,  
we used to sit in the morning sun._

-.-

"Do you believe in an alternative universe, Santana?"

"Berry, seriously. Just tell me which bar you are now."

"Some scientists believe that an alternative universe is not impossible. I would love to entertain the idea. Imagine, San! There's a whole different world with people like us—people who _are_ us—living their lives. I have no doubt that in whatever universe Fate puts me, I'll always be a singer. I'm destined to be with my voice, and even if I'm not, I will kick Fate in the ass and change it."

"Berry."

"Oh, and let's not forget our glee club! I hope we all are still friends in that universe. I couldn't imagine a life without you all."

"Berry, you're drunk. Just—"

"And—and not a life without Quinn. She'll always be beautiful. And graceful. And perfect. You know, San, if she's not busy chasing animals, she could just take a stroll in Times Square, and people would wonder how on earth they've never seen her on their screen. Because she is all that, San!"

"Damn it, Rachel, if you don't shut up—wait. Is Hummel there?"

"He's still in Saint-Tropez for work. Oh, and news flash, San, I've just got divorced. I signed that paper last week even though I loved my husband! And—and my daughter was—she asked me if I've ever loved him. Of course I have! I do! San? Santana, are you still there? I hope you're not hanging up on me. Lucy—she didn't even wait for me to answer her, and she had the nerve to ask another."

"Now that you mention Lucy, I wonder what she's gonna do if she knows her mom drank her ass off."

"For Barbra's sake, she asked me if I've ever been in love with Quinn!"

"The hell?"

"Lucy, San. My daughter. My own flesh and blood! Whom I named after the most important person in my life! Asked me that fucking question! How the hell was I supposed to answer that? How the hell could I look at her in the eye and said no, no, no? No, I've never been in love with Quinn?"

"Berry, come on."

"Because I am! Why yes, I'm in love with her! And for the last twenty years I've never had the guts to tell her, never had the guts to choose her over my husband, never had the guts to stop taking advantages of her feelings. And I've never even had the fucking guts to tell her that I know! That I'm sorry! That I'm fucked up!"

"_Rachel_."

"Who the hell National Geographic thinks they are? They're sending her away to a faraway country I don't even know it exists! Farther than ever! To chase after starlings! Starlings! And she chose those damn two-legged, worm-eater endemic starlings over me! _Me_!"

"Don't scream, _bitch_!"

"So I came to her apartment yesterday, and look at what I found, San. She subleased her apartment and left everything. Everything. Everything but her important stuff! All the cameras were gone. All the lenses. All equipment. And-and-and Beth's pictures. She brought everything that's important to her! Look at her closet, San, and you'd find all her clothes. Heck, even the NYADA sweatshirt she kept for years was there! And I am still here, San."

"Rachel, if this pity-fest is gonna continue—"

"I am _still_ here."

"Rachel, stop."

"Of all things she considers important, I am not included."

"RACHEL BARBRA BERRY, JUST _STOP_. HOLY MOTHER OF CHRIST, IF YOU DON'T FUCKING TELL ME WHERE YOUR SORRY ASS IS NOW, I'M GONNA FUCKING CALL 911 AND MAKE A DAMN MISSING PERSON REPORT."

"...San?"

"WHAT?"

"I hope Quinn is happy. She is—she wears sadness like people wear clothes. That's—for her to be happy—that's all I want. Wherever she is. With whatever animals she is. In whatever universe she is. I hope she's happy."

"You know what? Fuck this. I need a drink."

"I just want her to be happy."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**six: battleships**

_When will you carry me home  
Take it back to the start when you knew me?_  
_'Cause when you talk to me that way, I'll be a million miles away._

-.-

Waking up in Ubud is an experience like no other.

Breathes in. Birds chirping outside her window, sacred monkeys shrieking from quite a distance, water sloshing against rocks in the Campuhan River. Breathes out. People chatting merrily, hens clucking, kettles hissing quietly. Breathes in. Distance. Breathes out. Chance. Breathes in. Absence.

Yawning, she walks to her window and open it. Fresh air, so rare in Manhattan, greets her. Ubud's chilly weather in the rainy season wraps around her like a blanket. Another day to start. Another day to live.

"Good morning, Miss Quinn!"

She looks at one of her trainees down the balcony, waving back at his enthusiasm. "Good morning, Kadek."

It's an eccentric locality inhabited by eccentric people with high affinity for smiling. Half modernity, half nature. Half capitalism, half conservatism. It's nothing like Manhattan. Everywhere she looks, there are reminders of the power that be—wrapped around trees, offered for big chunks of stones, made blatantly clear in front of every house. Her trainees in the wildlife photography workshop that she is assigned to host tell her that these people are not part of nature; instead, they are nature and nature is them.

It's a different world.

Well, everywhere without _her_ is different.

Kadek climbs to her balcony easily. "We're going to release _canangsari_—offerings to the river. Would you like to make one, Miss Quinn?"

She makes a mental note to ask him to drop the honorific later. "How?"

Her trainee makes a shape with his hands. "We make a small basket. Then you put flowers and stuff inside. You can write a prayer, too."

"Okay." She reaches for the pen and the small notebook on her night table. "What should I write?"

"Everything that you know. Everything that you don't know."

She stops writing even before she starts. "I don't understand."

Her trainee looks at her patiently, knowing that she is learning from him as much as he is from her. "Everything that you know teaches you. Everything that you don't know prepares you."

Even 11,000 miles away from Manhattan, Quinn's heart still beats from everything that she knows and doesn't know about _her_.

Finished with the prayer, she folds the paper quietly and hands it to Kadek, who looks at it curiously.

"May I ask what you write here, Miss Quinn?"

"A name."

"A name?"

"A person who has taught me a lot."

Of trust when she couldn't even have trust in herself. Of dreams when she couldn't even believe she has the rights to. Of life. Of choices. Of heartache. Of sacrifice. Of happiness.

Of love.

"What's going to happen with the offering, Kadek?"

Preparing himself to climb back to the Campuhan River below Quinn's balcony, Kadek turns to look at her and grins widely. "Of course it's going to the sea."

"And after that?"

"And after that," he pauses, "it becomes part of this world and beyond."

From the balcony, Quinn watches her small basket of offerings float in the river, bravely heading to the sea like Noah's arc, carrying her prayer of a single name that Quinn keeps dearest, preparing itself to become part of her world and beyond. How true.

_I miss you_.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**seven: driftwood**

_Home is where the heart is,_  
_but your heart had to roam._

-.-

As she grows up, Quinn learns to love things for they are.

Wildlife, for example. And photography. And her profession. This is her world.

Even though it comes with an eight-hour hikinlg and trekking, a twelve-pound backpack, and a myriad of endless questions from her enthusiastic trainees, she loves her world. Her younger self, the naïve cheerleader and single-focused Christ crusader, may find it hard to believe, but Quinn grows up and learns. She won't be who she is today without being who she was in the past.

"Alright, guys. We've got a really amazing field trip today, so I believe congratulations are in order." She waits until her trainees' clap quiet down. "You're free tonight, but don't sleep too late. Tomorrow we have a mountain to conquer." A collective groan erupts, and Quinn couldn't help remembering the equally hard training she had. "See you tomorrow 7 AM sharp."

One of his trainees shakes his head as she passes him. "I can't believe you're not even running out of breath."

She shrugs, smiling. "You just need to stop smoking, do elliptical every morning, and take vitamins." Somebody teaches her that just fine, apparently.

And she finds that said somebody sitting on her bed as she enters her room.

The weight of her backpack is nothing compared to the weight of that stare.

"Ra—chel?"

Three long strides to cross the room. Two flicks of a hand to close and lock the door. An infinitive pull to warp her in the fiercest of a hug.

Quinn forgets to breathe.

"I'm so mad at you," Rachel mutters against the thick fabric of Quinn windbreaker coat, face hidden from Quinn's eyes. "The least you can do is hugging me back."

"Oh." Her hands still hang limply on her sides. Tentatively, she raises them to pat Rachel on the back. Once. Twice. She has a thousand questions—where did—who did—how—why—but Rachel. Oh God. Rachel.

"Tighter." Rachel's voice is muffled, but oh how Quinn misses it. "Hold me tight."

Her fingers are entwined around the small of Rachel's back.

"And never let go."

The raw plea, vulnerability, and emotion turn the statement into a question.

She no longer forgets to breathe. She can't breathe.

Rachel lifts her face from Quinn's neck. Her eyes are bloodshot red, and Quinn feels like she's just been punched in the abdomen. She needs a rescue. Ubud, please. Somebody. Anybody. Please.

"Found this in your old apartment." Rachel reaches inside the pocket of her coat. Taking out a thick, clear envelope, she presses it onto Quinn's torso. "Twenty years of these, Quinn. Twenty years and not even a minute to tell me you Indiana Jones your way to the other side of the world for good."

Quinn looks down to see the envelope better.

Oh.

Tickets. Passes. Old passports. From every continent, every country, every city she has visited. Including a thick bundle of Metro North Passes from her first year in Yale to her last one in NYU's Tisch. From her first trip as a novice wildlife photographer in Buffalo. From the year where Rachel made it a priority that she came home for Lucy's birth. From her last trip to Manhattan six months ago.

All the proof that Rachel is her center of gravity.

Oh.

She needs to sit.

Rachel follows her, still not letting her go from her embrace, awkwardly maneuvering herself to half-sit on Quinn's lap. "I know you do things your way. I accept that. But did you not realize how you made me feel when you—" she chokes mid-sentence, "when you just disappeared like that? For Barbra's sake, Quinn, I had to threaten your senior editor some bodily harms for the information of your whereabouts."

"You threatened National Geographic? Rachel, I—"

"Shut up," Rachel interjects. "Despite all your Yale and NYU's brain, you've never realized how much you mean to me."

She pushes Rachel's shoulder to give themselves some distance, gently though. "I like giving you what you want, Rachel. I like supporting you."

Rachel holds her eyes. "You know I know," she says, taking a painful pause in shame, "and you never ask."

She looks away. "I couldn't ask that from you."

"You don't get to look away from me," Rachel says firmly, though her hand that cups Quinn's cheek is as gentle as Quinn can remember. "How can—" Rachel stops herself, looking unsure, biting her lower lip, sighing, then continuing, "how can someone be so selfish and selfless at the same time?"

"Try a Fabray?"

Rachel's laugh mixes with a throaty sob against her collarbones. "I'm so, so, so mad at you I couldn't even apologize for my part of this mess," she says. "And I spent the last whole year believing that I've never hated anyone else like I hate you."

She has been preparing for this, but even with the preparation, Quinn can't feel her insides now.

"But I've never loved anyone else."

Rachel's fingers clutch at shoulders, and Quinn burns even through her coat.

"You've been drifting for a long, long time, Quinn."

She lifts her head, and Quinn's ears ring with a promise of support spoken twenty years ago in an abandoned hall in McKinley High. A warm hand lands on Quinn's nape, puling her into Rachel, equally warm breath falling on Quinn's lips.

"But it's time for us to come home."

She hears: _I want this. I want you. I want us._

She collapses onto the bed with Rachel on top of her, fiercely hugging Rachel to herself. It's a debt that she bears for two decades. It's desperate want, need, hope against a false dream that only dies as Rachel returns the hug as fiercely.

They're both laughing and sobbing until Quinn sees a lone bouquet of flowers near her window from the corner of her eye. She nudges Rachel gently, asking without words.

"You gave me a garden of flowers in winter once," Rachel says. "I want to return the sentiment."

_You've reached your shore._

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The themes for Faberry Week are like the following.

day 1 - fairy tales  
day 2 - jealousy  
day 3 - Beth  
day 4 - nerd!Quinn and Cheerio!Rachel  
day 5 - crossover  
day 6 - teacher/student  
day 7 - Metro North Pass

I'm taking the liberty to make a complete story from the themes.


End file.
